


Ira

by nimic



Category: AR∀GO ロンドン市警特殊犯罪捜査官 | Arago
Genre: Curses, Fae Magic, Gen, Rage Spells, will update tags for characters+etc later i guess??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimic/pseuds/nimic
Summary: For once in his life, Ewan couldn't just shut up and smile.





	1. Chapter 1

**### Setting up. Falling down.**

 

Things have been… _strange_ , lately. There’s been an increase in the small incidents, things that are mostly harmless but one wrong step and that’d change. There’ve been more medium ranged incidents too. Accidents where people get hurt, not too badly, but only _just_. And the police have managed to find no explanations for them. No culprits, no motives, just chaos whose consequences toe the line between bad but acceptable and _dangerous as hell_.

Honestly? It’s starting to drive Ewan up the damn wall.

And it doesn’t help that either Patchman himself or some damned copycat is in London, killing.

There’s a nagging feeling that something _bad_ is gonna happen soon, a tightness at the base of his neck, prickling on the backs of his arms, the constant overwhelming awareness of his scar. He’s spent too much time glancing over at Joe since the Patchman murders have started. Sometimes he thinks he catches a flash of snow white hair turning the corner. Of course Arago would come back _now_ , of all times.

They’re examining one of the small unnatural incidents when it happens.

Another sign with hints of being damaged on purpose, falling just shy of some pedestrians, crushing the sidewalk but no heads, thankfully. There’s a strange tinkling sound just out of reach, like some children are laughing. Thing is- there are very few children around at 11am on a Tuesday, much less _laughing_ children. Near a crime scene. (Granted, at this point, it’s mostly the police officers paranoid that this many similar incidents can’t be anything but a crime. An attempted crime, if you will.)

But he hears the laughs anyway, quiet and light like a summer breeze, there and gone. He feels like he almost steps on something, stumbles a bit. He checks the ground: paved like the rest of the older styled sidewalks around here, but no broken chunks from the sign are around. He squints at the ground. Suddenly his clothes feel- tight. Hot. Uncomfortable. There’s a strange taste at the roof of his mouth; like coconut, but somehow spicy.

He grinds his teeth, turns his squint into a glare. _What the_ fuck _is going on._ _Why the hell can’t we solve such a stupid fucking case._ He turns to one of the cops at the edge of the cordoned off area, who’s staring at him like he’s just grown a second head. _Oh hell, what_ now _._

“Uh, are- Sorry about this but- are you feeling alright? Sir?”

“Why on earth wouldn’t I? It’s not like I’ve been losing sleep over these stupid cases lately! It’s not like I have to worry about one of you getting into one of these damn accidents, with the terrible luck we’ve been having!” Oh god what is he saying. “It’s not like I think my brother is back in town and I can’t sleep because I’m worried he’s gonna die over something stupid! After fifteen fucking years! He comes back now!” He is crossing _lines_ , god. _No one has to know about any of this_.

“Uh, sir?” The poor officer is staring with wide eyes. She throws a quick glance around them, sees the other people present starting to realize that something is wrong. She moves to put her hand on his arm, maybe try to lead him away from the prying eyes, but he hisses and steps back.

“Don’t touch me- just- _fuck_ .” And isn’t that new, because Detective Hunt _never_ swears this much, at least not within earshot.

He turns on his heel, eyes searching for anyone that looks familiar enough to be an officer he’s worked with, but not one that might set him off again (not one he’d give a shit about accidentally spilling the beans to about his _brother_ , again). He finds a young fresh face, blonde hair, crew cut, and stomps over.

“An emergency has come up, I’ll leave the rest to you guys and Joe.” Quick, painless, _controlled_.

He’s afraid to get into his car and drive. There’s heat building up in his gut, crawling and scratching its way up his back, seeping into his throat. He’s not… in the best state of mind to be driving a deathtrap. He gets in anyways and rushes home.

He calls in to work, feeds them the same clipped message about his absence. He skips his usual shower in favor of throwing off his clothes and burrowing into his blankets, intent on _not_ biting his lips or chewing on his nails (intent on not getting up and punching a hole in his wall). Whatever this is, the sudden anger, the sudden irritation at everyone and everything along with the inability to keep it under control, it’ll pass. It has to.

 

**### Tripping up. Scraping knees.**

 

He heads in to work the next day feeling, well, not exactly better, but he’s not the type to skive off work just because his mood isn’t ideal. There are few things in his life he has regretted more than this.

He’d been snappy and rude all morning, despite his efforts to hold it in. And now the coffee machine was broken.

“Are you fucking kidding me.”

“Oh Detective Hunt, is the coffee machine broken?” Liz asks.

“No I just like wasting my worthless lunch hour staring at perfectly functional machines.” He’s real close to shoving the machine off the counter. Or dropping his mug into the bin because if he can’t have coffee then what’s the point. What’s the _fucking point_.

Liz doesn’t answer, and when Ewan looks up, she’s gone. A small blessing.

His day doesn’t get much better, by lunch he’s yelled ( _actually_ yelled) at at least five different cops for little details like evidence labelling and sloppy reports. Usually he’d fix the small mistakes himself but…

Liz, god bless her soul, got someone to fix the coffee machine so that’s what he’s having for lunch. Five cups of coffee and a healthy helping of fuming at his desk and doing his best to not scare the people who walk by while he wraps up a few reports. He can’t focus though, gets increasingly irritated that he can’t even complete some simple reports.

He gets up for cup of coffee number six when he spots an older guy from, shit- what division was it? finance? looming over Liz. Her face is twisted into a smile, her arms crossed and her body angled away from the man. Ewan feels his eye twitch as her foot shuffles forward, looking for an escape but not finding it. He slams his mug onto the counter and marches up to them. The consequences of acting out while he’s _already_ pissed don’t even register, because the only good thing since yesterday has been Liz fixing the damn coffee machine.

He forces a smile. “Hey Liz! Thanks for getting the coffee machine fixed earlier.”

“Oh uh, it was no problem Detective Hunt, Sir.” She uncrosses her arms, steals a glance at John? Ja- Jim, that was his name.

“Hunt!” Jim has the audacity to grin at him. “I was in the middle of a conversation with Miss Liz, if you don’t mind.”

Ewan grins back, all teeth, stretched the way he smiles to intimidate perps. He glances at Liz, who is slowly inching away, she nods slowly. Now she’s getting it. “I do mind, actually.”

“Pardon?” Jim squints, smile gone.

“Stop bothering Liz, you dick.”

The look on Jim’s face is like a glass of fresh water. Ewan gives Liz a sharp nod as she extricates herself from the cramped space and hurries away..

“Why you-” Jim grabs Ewan by the collar. Pulls him in, as if it’s intimidating.

Ewan spares just enough time to give Jim a warning, an unimpressed look, like this guy can handle a fight with him. When Jim doesn’t get the hint, Ewan moves. He grabs Jim’s right hand with his own, flips it over, twisting Jim’s wrist until he crumples onto the ground trying to escape the pain. Something twists in Ewan’s gut, pleased and hungry.

He throws Jim’s hand off to the side so Jim is properly on all fours. He kicks once, twice. Catches something shift in his peripheral vision and stops. Oh.

Oh shit.

The captain is standing there, among a small entourage of officers and other employees, face pinched then eyebrows tugging up in exasperation.

“Hunt, office, _now_.”

Ewan straightens. The rush hasn’t left him. He’s still pissed, still wants to hit something. He bites down on the urge to get one last kick in and makes his way over to the captain’s office, catches one last “Someone take care of Gallagher, Christ.” before he’s out of earshot.

Ewan welcomes the suspension, he needs a damn _break_.

 

**###**

 

He decides to spend his now free days trying to work it off. The anger sits in his bones and makes his skin prickle; he can’t stand just sitting around. He hits up a few local gyms before he finds one with punching bags where he can get a week pass for the duration of the suspension. He also signs up for the spotify free trial so he can drown his thoughts out in loud music (the fact that he didn’t have any to begin with had been… irritating).

He wears contacts to the gym and slicks some of his hair back. It’s a look he’d considered when he was an angry teen, and different enough from his usual that no one should notice him too easily. He _really_ doesn’t need to hear any comments about… anything. Not the working out or the anger, definitely not the wandering around the streets itching for a fight.

Because whenever he leaves the gym, he wanders.

It’s day three of wandering the streets after a workout that may have been too long when a strange old man stops him. The first thing Ewan notices is that he is short. Small and thin. And has a strangely placating presence.

“If you’ll pardon my asking, sir, have things been unusual lately?”

Ewan barely bites back a _none of your damn business_ , because he doesn’t owe anyone explanations, much less any infringement on his privacy. Instead, he levels the man with as blank a star as he can muster.

“I thought so…” The searches his pocket and pulls out what looks like a small round makeup case. “Put some of this over your eyelids or on a pair of glasses, and you might understand a bit better.”

Ewan’s gaze narrows, _what kind of crack-_

“It seems some fae have played a trick on you, my good sir. A small spell, an emotions one-” Ewan’s breath hitches. “- from the sparkle of it in your aura. This salve will let you see them. I hope it will help simplify things.”

When he reaches for the salve, the man tips his hat, and in the second it takes to examine the container, he disappears.

 

**### Cursed.**

 

The salve, whatever it is, _works_. Either that or it’s drugs and Ewan has an old man to hunt down and arrest. But the effect is constant, unchanging, and there’s no difference between putting it on his eyelids or his glasses. His head doesn’t feel weird either (not any weirder than usual, anyway).

To his dismay, there are little fairies and monsters everywhere. And when their eyes meet, they laugh.

He’s been fucking _cursed_..

The first few he approaches have no qualms about laughing straight to his face and disappearing. He’s about to start looking for a more forceful method when two kind fairies offer him a nugget of information once they manage to collect themselves.

“There’ve been a few of our siblings playing pranks around here lately,” sings one.

“A few too many,” giggles the other.

 _Figures_. “I don’t need them specifically if either of you could get rid of,” he makes a vague hand motion. “This.”

“Oh darling, that’s not how this works!”

“That’s now how _we_ work, sweetie.”

The fairies start dancing around him now, and he can feel the irritation prickle in his hands. “How the _fuck_ does it work then,” he bites out.

“You find _them_ or…”

“You pay _us_.”

Payment. Sure. He crosses his arms. “What’s it cost then.”

“Nothing you would have sweetums.” The two erupt into giggles.

“Why the _hell_ would you mention it the-”

The fairies are gone before he finishes, the air sparkling where they were floating a moment before. His fist slams against the wall in frustration. This is worse than a case with no leads. Almost as bad as being unable to track Arago down. The thought of his brother sets him off again, because things can never seem to go right with either of them. Ever.

His brother is back. Patchman may be back. Joe’s gonna end up on whatever path Arago does _because_ Patchman may be back. And he’s fucking _cursed_.

He punches the wall again once. Twice. Three times. The pain doesn’t register anymore, but it’s not enough.

 

**###**

 

The wandering is a waste of time. The fairies are also a waste of damn time. Ewan figures, despite everything, that he should try to do something more productive with his time. He’s got enough of a handle on his emotions now to control his outbursts, for a minute or two at least. Tracking down Arago turns out to be the easiest option. It’s basically wandering anyway, but he keeps his hair down and his contacts in, asking if anyone has seen his brother around.

“He’s a bit of a troublemaker, see. He told me he’d be in town and to find him, but not much more.” He forces a practiced grin. Spits out lies like this for anyone who will stop long enough to humour his questions.

He finds Arago in an abandoned building, leaning into a corner and half asleep with a fucking gun in his hand.

 

**###**

 

The gun is in his face when he kicks Arago awake. Ewan is not impressed.

“W-what the fuck? I could have killed you Ewan!”

He scoffs, and Arago’s eyebrows pull up from irritation to confusion, because this is not the Ewan he knows. Neither of them say anything. Arago lowers the gun, fidgets, his eyes running his brother over from head to toe. Ewan is holding a glare in place, he doesn’t have words to describe how fucking pissed he is at his brother for so many different things.

“How’d you find me?” Arago eventually whispers.

“I asked half the people in London, you prick.”

“You wh- I didn’t-” Arago stops himself before his voice can get any louder, lets it sink back down into the avoidant tone Ewan is used to hearing from their childhood. “I didn’t ask you to waste your time on something that dumb…”

Something that _dumb_ , he says. “Ha- As if you’d ever have to ask.”

“You don’t have to look after me!” Arago pushes himself onto his feet. “I’m not the helpless child I was back when Patchman killed our parents!” Their eyes are on the same level, but Ewan feels his anger bolstering his height.

“Are you kidding me? You’re killing yourself-” Arago flinches and looks away. “-chasing a ghost and you think I don’t have to look after you?”

“I’m not-”

“What the hell do you think I’d do if you died huh? You’ve been gone for- for _years_ ! And you come back for what?” He grabs Arago by the front of his shirt. “ _Rumors_ !” He hisses. “Rumors that some fucking psychopath _might_ be back!”

“You’ve seen the crime scenes, it has to be h-”

“I don’t care if it is! You-” Ewan groans, and raises his arm to rub just below his eyes. “I’m running out of ways to protect you and- if you died I…” He looks up and locks eyes with Arago. Arago who looks like he’s in literal physical pain, which is pretty much how Ewan feels at this point. “I’d rather kill myself first, you prick.”

He lets go of his brother — shoves him back, really — and lets the silence stretch. He feels out of breath, even though he isn’t really. He feels like he should be shaking. Arago looks like he might actually be. Maybe this was a waste of time too. Arago had never been able to understand him, never seemed to have the same kind of fear as Ewan. He lets his gaze fall to the floor, clenches his fists. A fear that eats him up at night, that sounds like Patchman’s laughter and their childhood home burning up. A fear that he’d fail to protect his brother this time, that he’d end up scared and alone. He knows deep in his bones that he wouldn’t be able to handle it. However Arago died would haunt him. He knows that that combination of fear and loneliness would drive him insane and he’d kill himself. Ewan has no illusions about his own weaknesses and the shaking kid in front of him is the biggest one.

“I just want you to be OK…” He whispers eventually.

“I don’t want to die. I don’t want _you_ to die,” he starts, and Ewan looks up to find his brother on the verge of tears.

Arago sucks in a ragged breath. “I can’t just move on though, I can’t forget what he did to mum and dad, what he- What he did to _you_. Every time I see that scar I hear him- he said ‘We’ll definitely meet again’ and if that isn’t a death sentence, I don’t know what is.”

Ewan feels a shiver run through him, can practically hear the words echoing through fire in Patchman’s rough voice.

When Arago speaks again, his voice is clear and strong. “I let you get hurt that night, I won’t let it happen again.”

Ewan can’t help the laugh that escapes him. Of course they’d both be thinking about protecting each other. Like _fools_. He says as much aloud, and Arago finally smiles.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may notice that the beginning sounds familiar. it's because i thought that last part would fit better with the rest of this chapter than at the end of the previous one. u can ctrl-f to the sole ### to skip it o7

**### Please for the love of god help me.**

 

“Are you doing okay though, like, mentally? Because I don’t think I’ve ever heard you get that angry,” Arago asks as he sits back down and pulls out a chocolate bar. Ewan squints at it, clearly his brother is looking for death in more ways than one. He bites back the barb about Arago not being around to hear him angry.

“I got fucking cursed. Something to do with emotions.” he relents.

“You- cursed? Are you kidding me? Did you piss off some witch?” Arago’s half grinning and Ewan feels ready to kick him again.

“I have been informed that it was some fairies, actually.”

“You pissed off some fairies.”

“Yes.”

“I’m so glad I came back,” Arago laughs.

“I hate you.”

“Nah you just hate-” He makes a vague motion with his chocolate bar. “Not being in control. That’s how you cope with everything else being so chaotic. You control freak.”

Ewan resists the urge to pout. Despite being apart all these years, Arago still knows him, and he still knows Arago. What a pair.

“So what’re you doing about it? You have a plan or something?” Arago asks.

“Yes, I’m going to find the fairies responsible and threaten to punch them if they don’t reverse this,” he deadpans.

“No you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m going to ask them nicely. Because fairies love to do favors for others. That’s why the first ones who spoke to me basically told me to go fuck myself.”

Arago’s in stitches and while Ewan is certainly pleased to see his brother happy and flushed with energy, the kid is edging dangerously into _getting kicked_ territory.

“I meant _we_ were going to find them and threa- threaten them- god,” Arago wheezes.

Ewan feels blood rush to his face and opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , but his mind betrays him and stays blank. Embarrassment notwithstanding, things are looking up. His brother is back and they’re actually _talking_. With Joe and Arago together, the three of them might have a chance of actually tracking down and arresting Patchman _without_ dying. And he’s still got a few days of suspension left to hopefully solve this stupid feelings predicament.

 

**###**

 

They decide to start with the area where the two fairies deigned to talk to Ewan. There’s nothing seemingly special about it, maybe a little on the older side, the shops not being as renovated as in some other areas. Arago, it seems, can sort of see the outlines of fairies without the salve, but accepts it when Ewan offers.

“This shit’s weird,” he says, because Arago can’t go a day without complaining about something.

“At least it works.”

“Fair enough.”

The fairies seem to like Arago, sticking around a little longer, offering quiet lilting “sorry”s before disappearing, actually holding back their laughter a little bit. Ewan side-eyes them, stays further back and lets Arago do the talking since they won’t tell _him_ to go to hell. He thinks it may have something to do with how he almost didn’t need the salve to see them, maybe he’s got some magic in him. (Ewan refuses to think about how Patchman had grinned, sharp and burning, while looking at his _brother_.)

“Yo, so-” Arago stops himself in the alley, Ewan just barely out of it, and scans the sidewalk quickly, fidgets. “They said the fae we’re looking for have been keeping tabs on you.”

Ewan feels a flicker of anger, a scowl forming before he can stop it, but no biting remarks. “Did they tell you where we can find them?” he relents.

“An empty lot, two blocks south of - and I quote - ‘where you almost crushed the poor darlings’.”

“That- _Shit_ , I thought I’d almost tripped on something. Ridiculous,” Ewan scoffs.

“Well, you know how fae are,” Arago waves his hand in a vague motion.

“No, I really don’t,” Ewan sighs. He’s so damn tired of this.

Arago holds back a laugh, seeing his brother get so worked up about something so- so _small_ , has been good. Great even. The best thing in years. “Let’s get going, shall we.”

 

**### Are we done yet (please tell me we’re done)**

 

There are three fairies sitting in a circle (a triangle, really) just off the center of the empty lot. Laughing. Side-eyeing them. Ewan isn’t sure if that’s cards he sees them hide, or if it’s weird fairy stuff he should feel lucky he didn’t see.

“Hey, you’re the ones who cursed my brother, right?” Arago asks, because the man doesn’t know what the word ‘tact’ means (then again, Ewan’s pretty low on the stuff himself, at this point).

“Oh dear, we’ve been found,” sings one.

“About time though, wasn’t it?” answers another.

“I suppose,” adds the last.

Ewan sighs, he’s getting real tired of how these damned fairies speak in literal circles. He meets Arago’s eyes for a second, then focuses on the fairies again. “What’s it gonna’ take to get rid of this bloody curse.”

The fairies’ eyes widen a fraction, then narrow into something playful (Ewan is most definitely _not_ afraid of what that may entail). They keep their eyes trained on him for a solid few seconds, and he can feel his brother’s nervous energy rising. Arago never was one for staying still long. Ewan won’t back down, though. Hunts are stubborn.

The fairies burst out laughing, and if Ewan wasn’t on the verge of yelling at them, he might have the same confused look Arago is sporting.

“Uh, why are they laughing?”

Ewan takes a deep breath to calm himself. “At this point, I’m not sure I want to know.”

“Oh, you’ll want to know, sweetie,” sings the one furthest from them.

“Pray then, do tell,” Ewan growls.

“There’s no curse anymore~ Silly~!”

He swears to _fucking_ god- “What do you _mean_ there’s no curse. What the _fuck_ has been wrong with me if there’s no damn curse.”

“It wears off after a day or two, little one.”

“Little-”

“Poor Mr. Detective~”

“Lets his emotions out once~”

“And they refuse to go back in!”

There’s a chorus of tinkling laughter as their physical forms fade away. There is a distinctly deeper laugh coming from just over his shoulder.

“You’re just being the real _you_ now, hun.”

“Just take a deep breath~ You’ll be fine.” He can practically hear the wide not-quite-threatening grins in their voices.

“I’m so fucking done with all of this.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t even been cursed half this time,” Arago chokes out.

“I’m gonna’ kill them.”

“No you won’t. Admit it, it was good to let loose a little.” Ewan is going to kill the fairies _and_ his brother, protection streak be damned.

“I hate you and I hate _them_ ,” he bites out.

“You _love_ me and you’ll get over them… eventually.” Arago grins at him like they’re kids again. Or, well, Arago is a kid again. Ewan is not. He is nothing like a kid anymore. Childish? Petty? Absolutely not.

“I’m not helping you with Patchman anymore.”

“Wha- But you promised!”

“You and Joe can go get yourselves killed for all I care. You’re both terrible for my heart.”

“Who’s Joe? Ewan? Ewan get back here!”


End file.
